“If it amused me! To keep him with me in the mountains. Ho, ho. You flush. Be calm. I said, to keep him in the mountains, make of him my pet and my toy, as you seem to have done.”
“Ruy Chaves.”
“Yes, perhaps to put him in girl’s frocks—and when I have played with him so—dressing and undressing him—then hand him on to my men for their doll.”
“Chaves,” said Dyke, raising his voice, “that’s enough. I am asking myself if it can possibly be true—what people say—that you were once a soldier—consorting with other soldiers—fighting fair, as they fight. When did they find you out? When were you first flogged, or branded—or whatever they did to you, to show what they thought of you?” He went on speaking, grimly and defiantly, scarcely knowing and not really caring what he said. From the bed he had heard the sound of Emmie’s breathing, quickened and sharpened by fear; and he wanted to drown the sound.
“I think,” said Chaves, “you had better have a drink now.”
“No, thank you, I am not thirsty.”
“Martinez, pour out wine for him. From his own bottle. Let him have a bottle to himself. There. Toss it off.”
“Thanks, no.”
“Then I think you had better go to sleep.”
“I am not sleepy.”